


In Want Of

by AtlinMerrick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Porn Challenge 2017, Boners, Love and rutting and fucking and fun, M/M, Masturbation, Sex, What it says on the tin—porn!, Willies all over, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2018-10-30 17:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10881123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: Porny John and Sherlock stories fromthese porny prompts.





	1. 3 Things John Watson Absolutely Does Not Know About Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pretending:_
> 
> There are three things John Watson pretends he does not know about Sherlock Holmes…

John Watson pretends he doesn't know certain things about Sherlock Holmes. He knows the famous detective knows he's pretending, but at this point John's pretended so thoroughly for so long that he has no idea what else to do.

So he continues. Pretending. Acting as if he doesn't see the lanky man when he comes to St. Bart's, doing the deducting thing everyone says he shouldn't be able to do but which he seems to absolutely do anyway.

Right. So John's got a list. It's a very short list. Of things he pretends he definitely doesn't know about Sherlock Holmes.

Number 1: John pretends he doesn't know that Sherlock Holmes smells fucking delicious. This is an important thing to pretend because if John doesn't he'll get a chubby. John doesn't want a chubby at work because it's just not something a doctor should have as he roams hospital corridors so, when Sherlock Holmes goes flying past him smelling like a come-drenched harem, something John's pretty sure is actually the man's natural scent, John pretends he isn't inhaling deep or whimpering soft and so far that's been pretty effective unless John _thinks_ about not thinking about this and— _damn it_. Now he's got a chubby.

Number 2: John pretends he doesn't know that Sherlock Holmes dances. This is difficult to do because Sherlock Holmes _does_ dance. Gorgeous long-fingered hands gesturing in excitation, he chatters and spouts and shouts deductions all while spinning through doors, down corridors, into lifts, coat flaring, and each time he does this John thinks how fine the man would look in something pretty and flowy and summery, bare-legged and without panties, spinning and twirling until John got peep after peep of Sherlock's penis and magnificent behind and— _double damn it._ Now he's got a boner.

Number 3: Of all the things John pretends not to know about Sherlock Holmes, the thing he most pretends is that Sherlock Holmes doesn't know John's got the hots for him. While the good Dr. Watson can pretend quite a lot of things, he can't quite bring himself to fully believe this bit of pretend because, frankly, John Watson may be in denial but he's not an idiot.

Bonus thing John Watson suddenly knows: Sherlock Holmes just danced past the open door of John's shared office, an office that is now empty of the other doctor because she's on holiday in Peru or Patagonia or Pennsylvania, John's not sure because when she told him where she was going John was desperately trying to hide a Sherlock Holmes-induced stiffy behind his own hands and anyway now he can hear that Sherlock's paused in the hallway and shit now he's just twirled himself back and he and his scent are filling John's doorway and the words, "Dr. Watson, I need to talk with you," have emerged from his mouth and he's closing the door behind him and if for any reason John has to stand up he's not going to be able to hide what's happening in his pants and— _god, god damn it._

**14 Things John Watson Knows About Sherlock Holmes After One Year of Buggering One Another Senseless**

Number 1: Sherlock Holmes used to pretend all sorts of things about John Watson until he finally realised John was pretending all sorts of things about him.

Number 2: Sherlock was nervous the day he entered John's office but the second the scent of arousal in that tiny space hit him right in the groin, it acted like some sort of truth serum even though Sherlock Holmes did _not_ believe in truth serums at all at that time.

Number 3: He believes in them now.

Number 4: Sherlock Holmes is ticklish all over, everywhere, and he growls low when some of the more private of his parts are tickled.

Number 5: Dear sweet baby Jesus Sherlock Holmes can spread his legs _this_ wide in order to display those parts.

Number 6: Holy fuck he can spread them even wider when he turns onto his belly to show the wet, enticing pucker of his most private of private parts.

Number 7: Hickies show beautifully on Sherlock's pale skin and when he spreads wider still, rumbling "Do it again John," John is incapable of not _doing it again._

Number 8: Sherlock's refractory period their first month would have killed John under ordinary circumstances if John hadn't already built up so much Sherlock-centric sexual frustration that he was able to power a small sun or, in this case, a pretty good-sized penis.

Number 9: Sherlock's penis likes John's penis, especially when their penises are making a mess together.

Number 10: Sherlock claims John's come is a food group and if he really cared for his boyfriend's health he'd get back in bed and "feed me again, John." (Note, see no. 8)

Number 11: Sherlock Holmes is a much braver man than John Watson, for Sherlock said boyfriend, beautiful, need, want, please, love, and forever long before John would have had courage to do the same.

Number 12: Sherlock gives John courage.

Number 13: Courage enough to ask a question.

Number 14: Sherlock's left hand looks beautiful with silver on it.

Bonus thing John Watson suddenly knows on this their first anniversary: Sherlock looks perfect in a flowing, summery dress and with just one or two more peeps of Sherlock's bare penis beneath that tiny twirly skirt John's pretty sure this chubby's going for full boner.

—  
_I'm finally starting on my[own list of porn prompts](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/160550292649/atlinmerrick-porn-challenge-2017-any-fandom) after much travel and a deep Sherlock lethargy brought on by series four. I think I've got the Sherlock groove again by deciding to number 1: write my version of the boys anywhen in the last 130 years, which means number 2: lots of origin stories and meetings and silliness and 3: continue to selectively ignore most of Mofftiss' canon._


	2. Blow the Man Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Body Fluids:_
> 
> Sherlock's not always sure what he likes. Desire, the consulting detective has discovered, is a fidgety, fickle thing. 
> 
> What gave him a stiffy last month leaves him limp this one, but of all the things to get him going, of all the things he might find sexy, Sherlock was certainly not expecting _this._

He's inured to a lot, is Sherlock Holmes.

He did not, for example, bat an eye when that Scotland Yard constable maintained it was impossible to deduce which way a captive cobra would strike even as Sherlock _deduced which way the cobra would strike,_ thereby saving the constable's life. She did not thank him.

Similarly Sherlock didn't so much as take a single second to question the wisdom of climbing to the top of Big Ben from the outside, thereby foiling a disgruntled clock cleaner who'd intended to hold the landmark hostage until his demands for full dental for his snaggle-toothed poodle were met.

Sherlock is so habituated to doing so close to anything for a case that he once let a toddler kick him in the shins for thirty minutes in order to steal the diamond-harbouring dummy from the kid's mouth once she went down for a nap.

As a matter of fact, Sherlock is so completely tempered against so much that even effluvious fluids such as bile, bilge water, spit, sick, pee, and runny poo don't disturb him overmuch.

This is all by way of pointing out that Sherlock Holmes is inured to a lot, but a lot isn't everything and tonight, when John Watson ended up drooling blood after craftily hiding all the blackmailer's keys in his _mouth,_ Sherlock was not expecting to find the bloody ooze sexually _arousing._

But aye, arousing it certainly was.

Even so, Sherlock managed to hide his erection through the tussle in an alley, the protracted arrest, their statements at the Met, and a two a.m. cab ride home. Then, just when he'd got over the whole flustery business, John grinned at himself in their bedroom mirror, called himself Cap'n Bloodmouth and the piratical sound of the whole business caused such a sudden shivery springing up of Sherlock's timber that even a completely-exhausted John finally noticed.

Suddenly the good doctor wasn't quite so tired.

"Arr, do ye like that laddie?" he said, grinning as red gore oozed pearly-slow over his bottom lip. "Like it when I'm a bit rough and ready?"

Sherlock's not always sure _what_ he likes, to be honest. Desire, the consulting detective has discovered, is a fickle thing.

What gave him an erection last month leaves him limp this one, and yes, apparently the smell of coffee can function as quite the stimulant for awhile if your flatmate-cum-lover moans at the scent of it often enough.

Anyway, the only reply to John's question that Sherlock could marshal was an undoing of his trousers, allowing his stiffy to spring free.

Though the blow job Sherlock was expecting as a result did not manifest.

No, instead John Watson wiped the blood dripping down his chin, smearing it so fetchingly Sherlock's cock dripped in excited solidarity.

Instead, John dropped his chin to his chest and turned from the mirror, casting such a lusty look from beneath his lashes that Sherlock fluttered his own in woozy arousal.

Finally, John took such a good long time slicking his red tongue over his upper lip that so help him Sherlock sprung at the man.

Giving no quarter, he held John's head in two big paws and he pushed his tongue into Cap'n Bloodmouth's mouth, _licking_ at the ichor and the spit and the moans, those last so thick he could taste them, oh yes he could.

He could also taste metal, could Sherlock, probably legacy of that mouthful of sharp keys and certainly a bit of iron from John's magnificently straight spine. This was such a piquant combination that Sherlock clutched John tighter, drew him in harder, smearing blood and spit between their lips until he could feel their slick on his chin and, scuppered well and good, he turned and looked in the mirror.

Blimey they were a gory glory, wonderfully filthy with John's fluids. Sherlock was so turned on he wanted _more,_ so much more, so he tugged John to the bed and prepared to board him.

Lube was found and carefully applied, legs were spread and knees kissed, then Sherlock slid deep into John's booty and proceeded to energetically plunder his hole, riding hard, licking and growling at the cap'n's bloody mouth until finally he filled the man up salty-full.

With a giddy hum Sherlock turned John over and went below decks, eating his cap'n out until the man shivered his own timbers, shouted "Avast!" and came hot and wet all over the duvet.

They fell on becalmed seas after, dozing long and well beneath the covers until morning came.

As the sun rose over the yardarm, they whispered things piratical to one another, nuzzled and stroked and bit, until Sherlock was ready to walk John's plank, walk here defined as lustily bouncing his ripe arse up and down on John's mast until there was a metaphorical fire in the hole. Soon after and with a vigorously pumping fist, Sherlock ran four slick shots right across John's bow.

That was not quite the end of that but there are two reasons Mrs. Hudson did not ask why her boys spent the rest of the week giggling ahoy and scallywag and yo ho ho to one another.

The first is that Mrs. Hudson is no fool and can figure shit out, all right? The second is that she still owns the tricorn hat and blunderbuss she bought for a weekend away with a charming beau a few years back.

That weekend had brought quite a spring to her cable, oh my, yes indeed.

—  
_So I had a dental extraction yesterday; this tends to lead to red fluids oozing after. A_secret_scribbler then called me Cap'n Bloodmouth and naturally this made me think of pirates which made me think of Sherlock which made me think of fluids he might find sexy which caused me to write this. A natural progression, yes?_


	3. Sex Kitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pet Play:_
> 
> "Will you be my kitty, John?"
> 
> _Oh fuck._
> 
> "Um, what I mean is, can we do it like animals?"
> 
> _Six kinds of double fuck._
> 
> "What I _mean_ to say is…"

Sherlock is not much shy, no. About things he has to do to get things he wants—clues, cases, evidence—Sherlock Holmes feels no shame or hesitancy.

Herein you may insert a list of things an unshy Sherlock has done, but honestly there's no one, from his most devoted blog-following fan to the casual reader of his occasional interviews, who doesn't know how far Sherlock Holmes'll go for the things he wants.

The answer: very.

Right, so Sherlock is not much shy, which is why he was surprised at the flutter in his belly and the thrumming of his heart as he looked at John that night. It was with surprise that he heard his deep voice go high and creaky as he began to speak. But it was with the reckless braveness that runs through every Holmesian cell that he went right ahead anyway and _said_ the words anyway.

"Will you be my kitty, John?"

_Oh fuck._

There in the pleasant gloaming of midnight, firelight picking out the glories of their shower-damp bodies as they lounged indolently on the sitting room hearth rug, Sherlock wiggled a few expunging fingers and tried again.

"Um, what I mean is, can we do it like animals?"

_Six kinds of double fuck._

Sherlock has just now realised he shouldn't have read all those kinky stories or watched all that porn because those were nothing like this and this was, basically, Sherlock Holmes wanting to try something new in bed and making a right bollocks of asking his husband about it.

Still and all, John Watson-Holmes, highly satisfied by a long lie-in this morning, a brisk stroll this afternoon, a perfect curry this evening, and now a solid hour of uninterrupted fireside reading on top of the cushiest duvet there has ever been _ever,_ well he was feeling content. In a giving vein. So John pushed up Sherlock's t-shirt and began fiddling with a nice nipple and he patiently waited for his big, awkward darling to find his verbal footing.

"There was," Sherlock squeaked, "that case."

John sometimes thinks his spouse of nearly four years could find a way of attributing ingrown toenails or solar eclipses to a case and he would not be wrong. Curious as to where _this_ attribution would lead, John trailed fingers down Sherlock breast bone and belly, blinked his eyes wide and interested, and he nodded for Sherlock to continue.

"She was…and so was he…and they had these…there were dozens of tails ears collars and things—" Sherlock took a deep breath to replace the one he'd expelled in a rush. "And when Lestrade arrested the lumberjack we found their photos…and it all looked so…it was…also…"

Right, it was now time to help so John helped. He cupped the pretty face of his firelighted love and whispered, "Do you want to try a little bit of pet play love? Want to be kitty cats? Hissing and meowing and mounting?"

Sherlock's not shy except those times he is but that time was now gone-so-very-gone so Sherlock answered John clearly and crisply.

He headbutted him.

Soft-soft, forehead-to-forehead, and so help him Sherlock sighed _yes John, please John, it seemed so damned sexy in all of the lumberjack's stolen photos John and also the dozen pornographic videos I watched and also in that super-sexy story I read about pet play in space._

When John headbutted a reply of _yes all right I can see you like that very much,_ all Sherlock's awkwardness fell away, inventiveness took its place, and though the scene had only just started it promptly went from zero to holy fuck when Sherlock stripped and Sherlock _changed._

On hands and knees he went, all six feet of him, and he did not crawl, he did not stalk, no, no, no, Sherlock prowled. Though he barely moved off that hearth rug, though he hardly roamed further than the warmth of the fire and the cottony tenderness of the duvet beneath bare knees, Sherlock Holmes-Watson managed to sway hip and arse, cant head and shoulders, and he looked at John not as a predator looks at prey, no, but like a fecund creature in need of _mating._

They didn't need ears or tails for this—oh they'd get them eventually, yes they would, because play is playful and absolutely nothing quite says _I'm into this if you are_ quite like spending hours on Etsy, buying pretty fetish gear like black cat ears and tan ones, and anal plugs with bushy black tails and that's beside the point the point is—

—they didn't need ears or tails or collars for this, not right now, because desire was _enough_ right now, going on hands and knees was enough, so John did too, and for good measure he dipped his chin and looked up and he growled at Sherlock low and chest-deep.

On all-fours Sherlock shivered, then Sherlock _presented,_ chest down, arse up.

With the beautiful heavy tread of a lion padding, shoulders taking turns taking his weight, John closed the distance between them. Just as he'd heard big cats do in the eighteen documentaries he may or may not have watched recently, Sherlock responded to John's approach with a low guttural sound, swaying around slow, until the entire bounty of his naked arse was in John's face.

John came close and _breathed_ right against Sherlock's clenching hole. He nudged the tight furl of it with his nose and Sherlock tilted his arse higher. Rumbling in pleasure John _pushed,_ but not in, instead he thudded at Sherlock's flank with the side of his head until Sherlock tipped over.

Crawling over him, John humped Sherlock's hip, his belly, his balls, a horny beast not too bothered about what part of his mate he rubbed on, though when his mate spread wide and again presented his willing arse, John pretended disinterest and crawled off—though not before pushing his face into the wet smears on Sherlock's belly. Then he ambled away, a beast already bored with this business of breeding.

Crawling back to the duvet, John reclined like a big lazy cat and, more than a little bit committed to this whole pretty play, John lifted the back of his hand, licked it slow, and pretended to wash.

Despite a great many documentaries, stories, pornographic films and books, Sherlock had no clue what a horny cat would do in these circumstances, he knew only what he _did_ do and that was arch his back and hiss his displeasure at being ignored.

Then, like any cat, Sherlock went right ahead and demanded attention by crawling up to John, crawling around John, swatting and nipping and vocalising at him until eventually John rolled onto his back and purred.

A proper little opportunist, Sherlock scrambled over John's head and shoved his dick into his mate's mouth.

For five good, long sucks, John Watson forgot all about playing, groaning hungry at the taste, giddy with the quick hump-hump-hump of Sherlock's hips.

About the time Sherlock's stiff prick went stiffer still in preparation to come, John remembered what he was about and pulled off with a roar and a heavy-handed swipe. Sherlock backed up quick on all fours, teeth bared, making chattery-annoyed sounds in the back of his throat.

A pride of two, both alpha both omega, they started pacing round each other once, twice, then Sherlock crawled close, rubbed his head against John's jaw, then went chest-down again and rubbed the scent of himself against John's paws. When he started to lick, leisurely and wet, when he started swaying his arse slowly side-to-side, John decided Sherlock was ready to be bred.

He withdrew one hand and Sherlock rumbled his displeasure. That rumble cut off quick-smart when John, fingers tucked so that he could _paw,_ pawed at Sherlock's head, pressed it down.

Sherlock could not have lowered his chest further or raised his arse higher but he _did_ try. He was rewarded by that heavy hand pressing down harder, by a muzzle nuzzling his curls with huffs of pleasure. Then, sliding side along side until he was behind Sherlock, John pressed his mouth over Sherlock's arse and like an animal—because he is, because every human emphatically is—John licked.

Humping the air, Sherlock chattered like a cat. John responded.

He spit.

And he spit and spit and spread that spit over Sherlock's hole and his cock and he licked some more and then he mounted his mate. Keen on a sort of animalian hard-to-get Sherlock tried to wiggle away but he didn't get the chance.

John sunk his teeth into Sherlock's neck and his cock into Sherlock's arse.

Primal and horny and now desperate to _breed,_ Sherlock let John have at him, moaning low and pushing back onto his cock. He pawed at his, still spit-slick from John's mouth, and the harder John fucked the quicker Sherlock pawed.

He came with a hiss, his prick spitting wet onto the floor and it was the sound of the splatter and the arrhythmic clenching of Sherlock's arse that had John pushing deep one more time and coming.

They curled up like kittens for awhile after, and after _that_ they went to bed, John dragging a string on the ground the whole way and Sherlock pouncing for it like a baby elephant through the entire damn flat.

In the morning Mrs. Hudson had words for them.

—  
_The[pet play story in space](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7706596) is real and it's one hundred percent the reason why I love pet play and holy smokes you do not have to be part of the Star Wars fandom to find yourself biting your knuckles and then flinging, I don't know, kitty treats, all over after you read it. Yes, [Cylin](http://cylin-aka-ankamo.tumblr.com/post/115499847151/take-me-to-church-anyone-inspired)—who also creates gorgeous art—is every inch that good. _


	4. Rucking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Disguise:_
> 
> John managed to whisper one word, one. But just as anyone who knew Sherlock would know he wasn't wearing any pants, Sherlock knew his husband of seven years and two months was saying so much with that one. single. word.
> 
> "Please."

No skirt is ever short enough for Sherlock.

Not since John, anyway.

Because Sherlock noticed early on that when he needed a disguise involving heels, stockings and skirt—and yes, _yes_ _he did_ need such disguises despite what Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Angelo, Mrs. Turner, Mr. Merrick, Molly, his favourite barista _or_ John said—anyway, when he wore such ensembles, Sherlock noticed John's gaze lingered longest on his skirt.

So to keep that gaze longer, Sherlock's skirts got shorter. Then shorter. Until, one day, slouched in a chair in Lestrade's office and randomly musing on just how short a short skirt could go, the detective inspector said something wonderful.

"Camden Market, mate. [Take it from me](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/7347048768/i-love-british-actors-with-the-blazing-love-of-a%20), they've got these micro minis that barely cover your bollocks. With your—" Here the DI gestured outward with cupped palms, the universal sign for bountiful arse. "—one probably wouldn't even get that far."

It does not need saying that Sherlock went to the Camden Markets.

Neither does it need saying that afterward he combed through eleven London newspapers for a case, any case—a six, a four, a _two—_ which would require him to wear his new red skirt.

What _may,_ in fact, need saying is that once Sherlock found such a case at a King's Cross fetish club, Sherlock neglected to share with John the sartorial specifics required.

Which was fine at first. As John and his Belstaff-and-booted boyfriend walked in the no-man's-land up behind St. Pancras station—well past midnight and the whole place creepy-quiet and washed yellow in sodium light—John was quite diverted by other things than what Sherlock might be wearing under his coat.

Specifically John Watson was diverted by the hairs standing high on the back of his neck, too many weirdly-shifting shadows, and _waiting for some sort of shit to go down._

Despite a fifteen minute walk in one a.m. dark, shit did not, in fact, go down. They were not mugged, shouted at, or in any way hindered in their progress through creepyville and up to the club.

Nor _at_ the club either, despite the case involving a martial arts pro with a side-line in arson and his gold medal in pistol-winning girlfriend.

All that shit went thumbs up as a matter-of-fact, so up that the criminals were in cuffs before the Baker Street boys even got to check their coats.

And _that,_ right there, was a problem.

"What the hell is your _problem?"_

It was well after three in the morning by the time they started back toward St. Pancras station, and do you know what? Despite another bit of deductive derring-do Sherlock was round-shouldered glum and John decided that he was not able to figure that out _and_ keep an alert eye on all the gloomy alleys. So he cut to the chase.

"Let's cut to the chase Sherlock. We got the bad guy and girl, a bunch of free drinks, and despite you walking us through every creepy shadow, we haven't even been leered at much less mugged. So _why_ are you looking like someone broke your Dino-Lite?"

Look, it doesn't do any good to mope if you're not willing to be placated out of that mope. So, though Sherlock didn't feel like explaining that he was currently wearing the tiniest skirt in Great Britain _and_ he was miffed he'd never got to show it off on a well-lighted dance floor, he at least partially answered John's question by stopping under a wan puddle of street light and dropping his Belstaff to the dusty pavement.

John did not have a coronary event.

John did not have a coronary event.

John did not have—

Look, maybe John did have a mini attack of some kind. It wasn't fatal or anything, but it did leave the good doctor weak-kneed. This meant he tripped backward, leaned against a light pole, and he asked the thing anyone who knows Sherlock Holmes would ask.

"Are you wearing any pants?"

Look, here's another thing: The case didn't matter. It had never mattered. It wasn't even a three out of thirty much less a three out of ten, but Sherlock had taken it because he wanted _this._

He wanted John's jaw unhinged and his eyes—*bam!*—on a nearly-condom-thin red latex skirt through which even a flaccid cock would clearly bulge and Sherlock's cock was _not even a little bit flaccid._

He'd wanted this at the fetish club because that was the sort of place things could happen. This, right here, in the middle of one of the few places in London Sherlock didn't much care for, this wasn't the right place for more than a bit of showing off and so, temporarily placated by John's reaction and the promise of more back at Baker Street, Sherlock bent down for his Belstaff, and he—

"Please."

That was all John managed to whisper but just as anyone who knew Sherlock would know he wasn't wearing any pants, Sherlock knew his husband of seven years and two months was saying so much with that one word.

_Please Sherlock, whatever you wanted to do at the club, do it now. It will be better than whatever I'm imagining by a factor of a thousand, and I don't care if we're arrested, I don't care if I have some sort of cardiac event, just know that if I die before you're done, I love you and I went willingly._

That's all it took. Frankly it would have taken less. John could have skipped _please_ entirely and just grunted and Sherlock still would have turned back, coat forgotten, taken a deep, chest-broadening breath, placed his palms on his belly…and run them down, down, down to his barely-covered cock.

Hell, Sherlock would have rubbed himself off through the skin-tight skirt if John had done little more than flair his nostrils. Because Sherlock _loves_ how John loves to look at him. Sherlock is a show-off and John's a…a…what do you call someone who for years has looked at you with lust _and_ love when you suck your own fingers, tongue your own lips or, like now, ruck up your skirt with slow hands and fast breaths, until the dripping tip of your bare cock peeps out from beneath the red hem?

John keened gently and clapped a hand across his mouth.

Ah yes, he knew now. You call such a someone _your audience._

And for his wonderful audience of one Sherlock was _delighted_ to show off.

So he pulled his skirt a tiny bit higher, and slow, slower, slowest dipped a finger down 'til it touched the tip of his cock. He swiped across the slit and then showed John the precome that came away in a thin, shiny strand. Sherlock smiled, all teeth, lifted his hand and pushed his finger into his mouth, then another when John moaned.

Theirs is and has always been the perfect feedback loop of _Sherlock we shouldn't do this, this, and also especially this_ and _oh what good ideas John, let's do all of those,_ so there in the middle of nowhere in the middle of their city John Watson and Sherlock Holmes _did_ it.

It was Sherlock sucking the fingers of one hand and tugging down the hem of his skirt with the other, tugging it tight across his cock while he _rutted_ into it, dazed and dreamy and watching John watch warm wetness drip-drip down to his smooth thigh.

Sometimes it takes a lot to get off. Sometimes they rub and rut against each other and fall asleep before anyone gets off. Because bodies are finicky things, recalcitrant and subject to stresses and pique. That's life. Yet sometimes, sometimes _it doesn't take much._

The latex of that skirt was so, so thin he could feel early-autumn chill through it but still it was resistant enough to push against, to get a littlebitenough friction, to _feel_ it on his—

—oh fuck.

To feel John closerightthere and _breathing_ through the whisper-thin material, hot and fast and wanting.

Yes, sometimes it doesn't take much to get off but even then Sherlock will sometimes go at it for _ever_ and he would have right there, he'd have rubbed himself against the nothing-much barely holding him in and he'd have relished the precome oozing warm down his skin, he'd have begged—he loves to beg when John is on his _knees—_ he'd have begged for John's mouth, he'd have dragged all of this out until they couldn't breathe or stand except two things happened.

A police cruiser flashing blue lights turned onto the long empty street on which they stood.

And John looked up through his lashes and whispered _please._

One…two…three seconds for what was already happening to happen and Sherlock Holmes rucked up his pretty skirt and he came and came, cock spitting onto the dusty pavement.

As if it had been waiting for them to get to and then past this point, the police cruiser _blue-flash, blue-flash,_ coasted to a stop under their wan little puddle of street light. Headlamps doused, engine killed, the driver's door opened.

When Lestrade got out of the car—PC Haddad had wisely rung his superior after figuring out who had butt-dialed Scotland Yard—the detective inspector at first didn't say much.

Then, coming round the cruiser and into the weak sodium light he looked his problem children over, looked at Sherlock's short, short skirt, muttered, "Yep," and then he gestured to the cruiser.

They climbed in back.

Lestrade had already put towels down on the seat. He'd learned from last Christmas Eve. Or Guy Fawkes. Whenever.

Lestrade turned his radio up pretty high on the way to Baker Street, but it wasn't high enough. He still heard John. Heard his whisper.

_Please._

—  
_Don't make me talk about how I love a[man's skirt being rucked up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10914903/chapters/24271962). Just leave me here to sweat peacefully. Thank you. P.S. I once walked back behind St. Pancras really late and yeah, it was totally cadmium-light creepy. P.P.S. [If you live in Dublin](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/163902341724/dublin-fandom-im-moving-to-dublin-in-september) let's talk! And finally: This is a [Dino-Lite](https://www.pepleroptics.com/dino-lite-edge-am7915mztl-digital-microscope-usb-2-0-5-0mp-10-140x.html)._


	5. A Gentleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Body Worship:_
> 
> There is about Sherlock Holmes a certain rare refinement. This refinement is evident even when faced with the full moons of John's beautiful bottom. Perhaps most _especially_ then.

John's bottom is beautiful.

Those are the words Sherlock thinks, in bed and looking at the arse in question. Except Sherlock is not thinking arse, no, he is definitely thinking _bottom._

For here is a thing few know about Sherlock Holmes: He is, at the heart of him, a gentleman. A _Victorian_ gentleman.

Life has seen to covering that prim person in snarls and sneers and self-defensive insults, yet had Sherlock enjoyed a kinder youth, he'd have manifest through it what he manifests now, a few years into his relationship with John: A delicacy of person, a fussy refinement, genteel desire.

Facets of that gentility have always been there, in prim suits that cover him from Adam's apple to well-turned ankle; in an old-fashioned watch with Roman numerals and filigreed hands, tick-ticking the hours that he holds so precious.

Until John, he didn't recognise this daintiness in himself and though its revelation was, well, revelatory, Sherlock can't deny it because here he is in bed, right now, ducked under the duvet, staring at John's bare body and he's gone all purple prose-y thinking…

John's bottom is beautiful.

Sherlock shivers.

He's under the bedclothes not to gaze rapturously at the rise of John's behind, no, he's beneath the blanket because December decided to goose every one with an unexpectedly cold finger and when he blinked himself awake ten minutes ago Sherlock realised the sun was up, his cock was up, and his back was bare.

So now he's tucked warm underneath their toasty duvet—16.5 togs, special ordered—and he's admiring a full moon morning.

Sherlock shivers again but this time with laughter. _Full moon_ indeed. Though in truth such ridiculous poetry is apt, John's two succulent mounds of flesh proof positive that—

In his sleep the good doctor stretches long, the muscles of back and behind tightening as he shifts. Curling fetal onto his side, he goes lax again and back to dreams.

And now that beautiful bottom is facing Sherlock so Sherlock puts his face by that beautiful bottom.

Because Sherlock's just gone from Victorian gentleman to lusty astronomer, keen on getting closer to two moons so that he can more closely admire their, um, their crack.

So Sherlock scoots low and slowly flips himself around, feet eventually wriggled under his own pillow, head pointed toward the bottom of the bed, his face now just a half dozen inches from John's bottom.

It's full-bright outside so Sherlock can see lots and lots of things beneath the duvet.

For example, he can see the fetching glow of a 16.5 tog-induced sweat shining over John's beautiful behind. It makes the flesh appear succulent, soft, bitable. As if such thoughts by their nature must lead to deeper exploration, Sherlock reaches up and Sherlock parts those nibble-worthy cheeks and looks… _there._ Right at John's…

…Sherlock's Victorian sensibilities seek something prose-y to latch on to. They flounder because, frankly, until John Watson, Sherlock Holmes had zero experience with anyone's… _there._ So, though a man of less refinement might call that place an anus, an entrance, or an arsehole, Sherlock's brain comes up with something short, less vowel-centric, and entirely more elegant.

_Furl._

Yes. That. It's a furl. Of flesh. John's flesh. Snug and tight. A pulled-in pucker inside which he sometimes—

Sherlock stops delicately humping the air. He takes a deep breath, eyes closed, and counts. It takes the tickling trickle of precome fourteen seconds to finish dripping from the tip of his penis and on to the bed. Once it does, Sherlock nods, opens his eyes, and continues studying.

Ah, he can see a dried bit of ejaculate leading away from John's furl. While that small white smear is not precisely the prettiest thing in the world, it does cause pretty things to occur, like greater blood flow to Sherlock's penis and a good deal of panting from Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock runs his thumb across the pale evidence of last night's goings-on, when John felt the need to celebrate the return of [Jingle Bell Mint Mocha Lattes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5402675/chapters/14086978) at their favourite coffee shop. This he did by asking Sherlock to 'ring his bells' or balls or—to be honest Sherlock doesn't remember exactly what John said, only that he'd tossed their mint lube onto the kitchen table and then scampered off to the bedroom.

Then, like some sort of canid whose prey drive is activated by scampering, Sherlock had flung down his pipette, yanked off his nitrile gloves, untied his apron, removed his goggles, tugged the tissue twists out of his nostrils, pulled off his bandana, and ran after his prey.

They then went on to pretend to make their favourite seasonal beverage by mixing mint lube and, well, 'cream' (ejaculate) inside John Watson's beautiful behind. Recalling all the grunting particulars of this Sherlock's face flushed a nice, bright red—much like the candy canes also found in their favourite seasonal beverage.

All these thoughts of cream and mint and candy encourage Sherlock toward further study of John's bottom and its little furl, so it's quite natural that soon Sherlock notices something else about that tight little twist of flesh.

It's leaking.

Sometimes he and John shower right after sex. Sometimes they don't. In the latter case they use too many tissues or someone's pants to wipe up fluids and that's the end of that except…

…when a man stretches in his sleep? Muscles clenching and loosening as he falls back to dreams? Well there often occurs then some _leakage._

The flush in Sherlock's face heads further south, because dripping slow from John's beautiful bottom is a lustrous bit of lube and a tiny bit of Sherlock's come and his brain doesn't even _try_ for poetry any more, all he knows now is that he wants to do something and so something is what Sherlock does.

He licks.

Then he laughs.

Because John tastes of mint here, he tastes of _mint._ He tastes of winter and celebrating an abomination of a beverage that they both somehow love. John tastes of them, of their bodies, and Sherlock wonders if there are old-fashioned words for that, for the alchemy of fluids combined and warmed, for how the taste of them in his mouth can make him feel as if he's been marked by his mate, the musk of sex saying: _he is mine I am his we are a tribe of two._

It's not the first time Sherlock's thought of them like this and it won't be the last but it will be all for now because finally, finally, _finally_ the great big brain of Sherlock Holmes stops _braining,_ allowing the rest of him to rise to the fore, so the rest of him parts John's cheeks wider, licks longer, deeper, harder. The rest of him murmurs endearments and praise, nips and nibbles. It laughs when John stretches again in sleep then _eeps_ in wakeful surprise.

And after John sighs and angles his beautiful behind, a full moon looming right in Sherlock's grinning face, it's that part of him which primly kisses first one cheek and then the other, it's that part that delicately delves right in, humping the air with his hips, and rimming his husband for all he's worth.

Just like a proper Victorian gentleman.

_—  
I've always thought Sherlock has in him an inclination to gentility. Whether a twenty-first century boy with a mobile in his pocket or a top-hatted man in the back of a hansom, there's something about him that, if given a chance, would have been refined, rarified. What better way to show that than through rimming?_


	6. Festive Titration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Unusual Sex Toy(s):_
> 
> Sherlock Holmes looked aggrieved. "You're the only one who hasn't _noticed,_ John." 
> 
> The good doctor Watson narrowed his eyes, fought the instinctual urge to apologise, and flicked his gaze from Sherlock's head to his heels. "Noticed…what?" 
> 
> Sherlock looked west and held his hands out, wrist up.

Mrs. Hudson hugged Sherlock as they dashed out the door to Tesco and John thought nothing of it, not even when she kissed him soundly on the cheek as if they'd be gone a month not a few minutes.

The shop was crowded because everything in London is crowded in December. Even the sixth floor gents at Scotland Yard is busy this time of year and John's half-sure some of those people don't even work there.

Anyway, they would have been in and out of the shop in ten minutes except the girl on the till has a _huge_ crush on Sherlock, so John wasn't surprised that along with chattily ringing up their purchases at a glacial pace, she had to "come round the counter so I can give you a holiday hug." This took eleven of their allotted ten minutes and then a bonus one while she chivalrously but shyly kissed the back of Sherlock's hand.

Molly didn't notice they were late, because Molly wasn't at the morgue when they arrived. She breezed in twenty minutes after and before saying word one bussed Sherlock right on the mouth, then said, "So come look at the man's eyelashes, you've never _seen_ so many follicle mites in your life!"

By the time they got to Scotland Yard John was feeling an itch in the back of his brain but thought nothing of it. Live with Sherlock Holmes for more than a day and more than your brain is going to itch ("I never meant for the chiggers to get into _your_ shirts, John"). So even Lestrade's hearty 'happy holidays lads' and his Sherlock-only faire la bise didn't cause the good doctor to scratch, as it were.

Then something happened in the Yard's sixth floor gents. They ran across Conner the Crouch End Con Man coming out as they were going in and the man Sherlock had put away for five years not only greeted them amiably—"I've got me own repair shop now down Stroud Green"—but he patted Sherlock's bottom and gave him a lingering kiss right on the lips and finally John _thought something of it._

Right. So. The good doctor waited for the con man, five coppers, and two cleaning women to leave the loo before he said, "Sherlock Holmes, what did you do?"

Sherlock Holmes looked at some random spot on the wall, then at his cuff, then left of his husband's head, before saying, "I don't know what you mean John."

John Watson knew this for the lie it was, but John Watson is many things of which patient is only one. So, carefully and without shouting he said, "People who do not _kiss_ people all willy-nilly have been kissing just about everything _but_ your willy all day. I am wondering why."

Sherlock Holmes looked aggrieved. "You're the only one who hasn't _noticed,_ John."

In the space of a second the good doctor Watson narrowed his eyes, fought the instinctual urge to apologise, and flicked his gaze from Sherlock's head to his heels. "Noticed…what?"

Sherlock looked west and held his hands out, wrist up.

John looked. Then, because John has lived with Sherlock Holmes a whole lot longer than a day, he also touched, listened, smelled. And then he tasted.

"The _fuck_ Sherlock?" John wiped off his tongue with his both hands and then kept wiping until everything was wet and gross. "The absolute _fuck?"_

Instead of answering Sherlock looked _more_ aggrieved, pulled back his scarf, then bared his neck. So help him John stopped wiping his tongue with his own skin and tentatively sniffed the air in the general vicinity of Sherlock's body.

"What? What am I not notic—"

Before John could finish, the loo door banged open. A person of indeterminate age, colour, gender and wearing a half-face respirator walked in. They waved, banged their way into the nearest cubicle and proceeded to pee like a racehorse while shouting, "So how'd the mistletoe titration work out Sherl? Did you get enough to make your honey horny?" This was followed by some situationally-inappropriate giggling.

There in the sixth floor loo at the far south-east corner of the Metropolitan Police Service and to the sound of a forceful stream of urine, a small but important lightbulb went on over John Watson's head.

While one of the Yard's big-bladdered forensic scientists took care of business John silently put Sherlock's scarf around his neck, took hold of his husband's hand, turned to face the occupied cubicle, and waited.

When the person of indeterminate age, colour, and gender emerged—only a little startled to see 'Sherl' and John staring—John inclined his head, enigmatically said "Yes," and then, tugging Sherlock after, vacated the sixth floor gents in favour of a seventh floor cleaning cupboard. There he proceeded to get all willy-nilly with Sherlock's willy.

—  
_Okay, so this is a bit of a reach with 'unusual sex toy(s)' but…is it? Is it really? This is Sherlock, and I think maybe that's all that needs saying. Happy festive titration to you and yours this holiday season._


	7. COC + FAP = WTF?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Exhibitionism:_
> 
> Sherlock Holmes does not have a shy or awkward bone in his body. 
> 
> John Watson has a couple hundred.

"—don't worry Greg, I'll verify with her PA later."

Sherlock finally looked up from texting. "Playtime anus?"

John inhaled bad black coffee right up his nose. It stung.

Lestrade blink-blinked his eyes wide. "What the _fuck_ Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled without teeth, blink-blinked back. "WTF. See, I know acronyms."

"You know…what?""Is this…what?"

That was John and Greg, at the same time. They often echoed one another. It was fascinating.

"Acronyms. Everyone who's everyone uses them. It's entertaining to figure out what they mean."

Lestrade continued to blink-blink while having himself several thoughts. _He has to know PA means personal assistant. He has to. Then again he didn't know crisps are made from potatoes. So._

For his part, John absolutely knew he'd brought this on himself.

You see, while Sherlock does not truck with jealousy—married or not, he never one time ever would think to stop John from wanting or having any one or any thing—Sherlock _is_ jealous of John when John knows something _he won't tell._

Even if the thing is dead boring and John _tells_ him that it's dead boring, Sherlock has to know the boring thing so that he can look west and with ennui sigh, "Boring."

"And so I've figured out that PA means playtime anus."

"As opposed to _what?"_ Lestrade's voice was not hysterically high, it wasn't.

"This is about Aine isn't it?"

Sherlock ignored John and answered Lestrade. "Well the anus has many jobs of course."

Lestrade shook his head, mouth open, trying to jiggle words out. Nothing came.

"Because her joke wasn't funny unless you were in the army Sherlock." John's voice _was_ hysterically high.

"So one must specify if the sphincter of which we speak is on the clock, as it were, or _off_ the clock. Hence: playtime anus."

"I don't understand." Greg looked like he might cry.

Look, it's like this. Sherlock had come home just in time to hear the tail end of a military joke told by the DI at the Met's Chelsea borough. Aine Mahoney-Singh had left John half-weeping with her acronym soup of BUMED, COC, and NACHOS and the second the door closed behind her—finger-wave "Bye Sherlock"—Sherlock commanded John to bring her back "and explain why that's funny."

John did _not_ bring her back. _"You_ do it Mister I Don't Believe DILDO Is Really Short For Some Military Something She Must Be Lying John," and they'd been in the middle of that bit of bickering when Greg called.

Now here they were not saying anything until Sherlock opened his mouth again and then Lestrade and John both said a lot with as few pauses as possible, thus managing to agree on a place for a pint, a deadline for a case, and a FAP, where Lestrade immediately realised he'd gone wrong but before he could shout "Forensics action plan!" Sherlock serenely said, "Fingering and penetration?" and after that Lestrade could not get his brain to do anything but make aborted clicking sounds in his throat.

Finally John just sighed, swept up their case files, and headed to the door, muttering "It's nothing Greg." Sherlock ghosted serenely after.

It wasn't nothing. It wasn't nothing then and it wasn't nothing thirty minutes later. It was so, so much something and John Watson should have damn well known better. Taking Sherlock out amongst the world in this particular mood would not magically disappear this particular mood.

"—and I think we have more than enough time for you and Mr. Holmes to finish your investigation Dr. Watson, the ARR isn't until Tuesday—"

The Old Bailey is a venerable place, an old place. A judicial edifice has sat on that London site for over one thousand years. Lives and laws have changed there and even in a tourist the building encourages a certain sort of reverence.

"Anal rest and relaxation."

Not so, Sherlock Holmes.

For his part, John hadn't even heard the barrister _use_ an acronym, his brain simply filling in _arraignment,_ but there, beneath god and the Bailey's painted ceiling Sherlock, hands clasped behind his back and until that moment daydreaming quietly finally weighed in.

The barrister and her horsehair wig both seemed to take a step back. Before Sherlock could say more John said everything.

"Fantastic we'll get back to you as soon as we finalise this last little bit Ms Nowicki and in the meantime you can call me on my mobile at any time my mobile the one that I have that's mine here let me write the number for you the number to my mobile the one you should call if you have any questions whatsoever okay right there you go we'll be in touch that's it for now okay bye we've got a lot on today."

That last little bit was said at a sprint as John dragged Sherlock by the cuff through the Great Hall and—

"Mr. Watson."

No.

"Mr. John Watson."

God no.

_"Watson."_

Shitshitshit.

Scotland Yard's chief superintendent stumped over until he stood scowling at them like a constipated demon. Above his head Mercy peered down, her gaze judgmental.

"I'm not happy Watson, not happy at all."

Of course he wasn't. The chief superintendent was never happy, and it didn't take chinning the man to raise his ire.

"That Bulls Cross case, Watson. We at the association of chief police officers are not happy Watson. Not happy. My colleagues at the ACPO have given me the great responsibility of correcting your—"

"Analingus can pleasure often."

The chief superintendent might be talking but John was the one who choked. He deftly covered this by coughing himself hypoxic, while the chief superintendent squinted at Sherlock.

"What did you say Holmes?"

Hands clasped behind his back, Holmes blinked pretty eyes wide, gave the entire hall a sunny smile, and said absolutely nothing.

"You know I'm on to you and your vigilantly ways. And your boyfriend's little blog, going and giving credit to Enforcement, Response & Crime for _our—"_

"Ejaculation, rimming, and climax."

The chief superintendent reared back so quickly John heard bones creak. _"What?"_

The case they'd named _The Fromagère's Apprentice,_ the one even the press had called 'a bollixed mess of incompetence, nepotism, and low quality cheese,' was closed. Sherlock had been stellar, the ERC people professional, and now that John was done dying he was more than ready to chin the chief superintendent for old time sake, but Sherlock wasn't done.

"Dee are chief superintendent," said Holmes, smiling bright, "Dee _Are_ Watson. My husband's name is _Dr._ Watson, not mister, and you sir are a see el oh tee."

With that Sherlock took John's hand and marched them right on out of the Old Bailey.

Out on the street, round a corner, up a lane, and down another Sherlock finally let go of John's hand, clasped his hands, then stood penitent still and waited for cranky shouting.

Except you know what? Do you just know what?

Life's too damned _short_ to get your knickers in a twist over every little thing. Sherlock was an adult-six-year old sure, he was daft as a duck, yes, but he was _John's_ daft six-year-old duck and he had his back where it mattered and so instead of cranky shouting there was giggle shouting as John said, "BMNYGI, FOHCTCA!" and scarpered toward the tube.

Sherlock blink-blinked. Then he grinned. Because Sherlock Holmes is not just any old duck, he's a _genius_ duck And there was only one response to John's _bugger me now you gorgeous idiot, first one home chooses the curry after._

And that response was to take off like a shot in the opposite direction. The tube—ha! Sherlock was getting a cab. He was gonna order tikka masala, paneer, and garlic naan.

OMG yes.

_—  
You have [Army-Technology.com](https://www.army-technology.com/features/featurenachos-wombat-funny-military-acronyms-defence-army/) to thank for the military acronyms, and my [three cohorts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11245899/chapters/25135839) to thank for many of the others. And yes this is exhibitionism only if you squint hard but damn it I will finish this series of thirty-one prompts if it takes me until my dotage. P.S. Here's the Old Bailey's statue of [Mercy](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/178837942634/fic-coc-fap-wtf-exhibitionism-sherlock). P.P.S. I was given the gift of watching 221b_hound read this story and one of the greatest gifts you can give a fic writer is the gift of hysterical wheezing. In case you were wondering. (I heart you Hound.)_


	8. Reach Out and Touch Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Priest or Religion:_
> 
> Sherlock's not a religious man but he does know of the devout. He knows about purgatory, penance, heresy. Sherlock also knows that what they're doing is definitely a sacrament. 
> 
> Though some might see it as sacrilege.

John Watson is a literal man except for the times when he is not.

A doctor can't meander through a diagnosis, a soldier can't be vague about a bomb, so John's learned to be literal about things, from the important to the inconsequential.

"We need milk."

"The best fish and chips are from the shop on Portman Square."

"My tea has squid ink in it again."

See? Super literal John Watson, right there.

However.

In John's life, his love, and his adventures with Sherlock Holmes, John has learned to be other things. Flexible, for example, amendable for another, non-homicidal for a pointed third. And John has also learned to be lyrical when needed, poetic too, because sometimes there's no other way to be.

*

The case was in a village in the sweet green middle-of-nowhere County Clare. More than a dozen miles from Limerick, the tiny Irish town had a high street, some pleasant pubs, the genteel ruin of a thousand year old cathedral, and the River Shannon.

Yet for as lovely as that town was, as green and charming as a place not far from County Tipperary is almost required to be, that small village was grim-dark for Sherlock Holmes.

Because it was there, down a lane, behind a copse, and near a low stone wall that everyone found out England's famous consulting detective sometimes failed to _detect._

No one's perfect, no man a machine, but some still make a man believe he should be, that he's failed even when he's done his best, and Sherlock Holmes _fucking always_ does his best, John Watson'll tell you that for god damned true.

So even after the police and the coroner had sent them on their way, even as dusk fell, Sherlock stayed close, as if a late revelation could bring people back who had died days before they'd arrived.

"I should have…" said Sherlock, filling in things he hadn't done, couldn't have known to do, but in hindsight saw plain as day. "I _should_ have…" said Sherlock, digging deep at a wound he called failure, one that'd scar if he was left alone to tend it.

John would not leave him alone to do that, so he took his husband's hand, led him through woods and by a pasture, down narrow lanes and along a canal, until at last they came to the high street not far from there B&B. It was here Sherlock simply stopped, a couple steps from warm light spilling out open pub doors.

But instead of going in and letting the soft music of voices and violins soothe him, Sherlock dropped spiritual anchor right there in the middle of the pavement and if left alone he'd stand for hours, an anxious and endless series of _if onlys_ running a maze in his head, no exit, no entrance, no relief.

And John knew that, knew with his literal side that if left to himself Sherlock would glitch his software but good, struggling after something he was never given enough data to discover anyway.

John's lyrical side though, his poetic? Since the day he met this detective man he's been developing it, learning how to comfort with it, how to pull Sherlock away from facts and toward something sweet.

So John weaved their fingers together, he looked at the mellow pub light spilling onto the pavement, golden now the sun was nearly set, and then John started walking.

Down the nice main street of this pretty little village, down, down, down the road, down toward a ruined cathedral built a thousand years ago.

When they'd first arrived in town and Sherlock went to gather facts, John had come right here, because the good doctor will always visit churches and temples, though not for reasons of faith. John believes in the sacred, but not the divine; he's seen too much pain over too many years to have an unquestioning faith, so for holy places he reserves only a respectful awe.

So it wasn't for religious comfort John took Sherlock into that old ruin, it wasn't to stand in the nave and admire lowering sunlight pooling in the apse and against the old stone altar. Though they _did_ stand awhile, looking at the shadowy interior, at the new wood of saplings taking root in cracks where the old wood of pews once stood, at paper coffee cups lodged up against big stones that had made up the tumble-down roof.

Then, as if beginning the stations of the cross, they started to slow walk hand-in-hand around the church, along the nave, down aisles resplendent with footprints in dust.

They visited the transepts, ducked into the lady chapel. Here Sherlock stirred in interest when he spied an old piece of paper. Unfolding showed a crayon drawing of a girl and a cat and Sherlock smoothed the drawing flat, found small stones to keep it that way and left it on a single low stair.

By now the sun had gone behind hills and a rising half moon peaked through the clerestory. They found more paper, this time a couple pages of broadsheet from 1989. Side-by-side they squinted in the vanishing light and read about the Troubles. A visit from the pope. Unemployment. A carnival.

John could feel Sherlock unspooling now, his grip growing stronger, his breathing deeper, his gaze going up as the newspaper fluttered down. They walked and he looked at arches and piers and millennium-old stone.

At the end of the apse they turned and Sherlock began leading them back toward the nave but no, nope, that wasn't where John wanted to be.

Instead, amidst moonlight and murmured protests, John tugged his recalcitrant love toward the long flat altar and with his own murmured words he coaxed Sherlock onto it. Once Sherlock was laid down, a scowling angel in soft silver light, John began to worship.

"These hands," he said, taking one of Sherlock's in his. "The first night you heard me have a nightmare I woke up with this one, this hand, right over my heart. It was still and heavy and as immutable as these stones."

John kissed the pad of each finger, the palm, and he grinned so wide in the gathering dark that his teeth gleamed. He put his prize down, then reached for the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, expensive black linen, thin in deference to the summer weather. He spread it wide, put his hand on Sherlock's bare chest. Sherlock settled both his hands over John's.

"And _this_ heart love? It's big as a cathedral, but when I have my ear right here some nights? Nights when I can't sleep, or I'm anxious, or just lonely? I shut my eyes to all of that and I listen to this. Your heart. My favourite hymn."

John smiled again, ran his hand over Sherlock's ribs, his belly, to his belt. He waited a second, a second more, then undid belt and hook and zipper. Without much grace and then giggling he tugged until Sherlock lifted his hips, pulled trousers and pants down and off.

For a long little bit Sherlock lay still under John's admiration, a white man limned silver by moonlight, an earth angel with black linen wings. Then it was Sherlock's turn to reach, undoing John's fly, pushing and grunting until jeans and underpants were shucked. Then he tugged his own personal savior onto the still sun-warm altar and side-by-side they lay on that strange bed together but mentally somewhere else for a little while.

John was back in London, still thinking of that nightmare night, of waking to Sherlock's hand on his chest and thinking _I want to stay,_ where stay meant being anywhere that Sherlock was.

Sherlock? He was in a London sewer, the River Thames, under a bridge, behind a clock tower. He was in Brighton, on a ferry, on top of a plinth, in a taxi. On an ancient altar. And in all those places there was John. With him, beside, behind, ahead, hand-in-hand or near enough, John was there. He was always there. He was…

…he was right _here._

Sherlock took hold of John's face and brush-brush-brushed lips against lips, then his cheeks, chin, nose.

John giggled, then so did Sherlock, two quiet skitters in case anyone lurked nearby. Now that it was full dark with only a pale moon to pick out a safe path, they were probably pretty safe for what they were about to do.

Hooking a leg over John's hip, Sherlock pulled him on top. There was an accidental pinch, an ouch, a shift left, then a bit right, and by the time John was between long legs opened wide, they were laughing loud then slapping their hands over each other's mouths.

They had no lube to slick the way so they went for good old-fashioned dry humping, slow and giddy, plump cocks in the warm crevices of thighs or against the sweet give of a belly. Sherlock lipped John's palm because Sherlock likes to suck, so John gave him his tongue.

It's one of the best sorts of communion they think, mouth and tongue, breath and spit, warmth and sighs and so good god did they kiss. It got one of them wet, made the other one moan, and now there was a nice little bit of slick between so two cocks slid easier, got fatter.

Sherlock's not a religious man but he does know of the devout. He knows about purgatory, penance, heresy. Sherlock also knows that what they're doing is definitely a sacrament—a visible ritual designed to convey an invisible grace.

In that old church, with the faint sounds of _something_ scurrying in distant corners, grace was two cocks grinding, sometimes against each other, most times not, it was French kissing like they'd invented it. It was Sherlock clutching John's head, baring his own neck and being rewarded with teeth biting low. At home in bed they'd have been grunting by now, but they'd gone church mouse quiet, except for the ridiculous and occasional sound of shoes scraping on altar stone.

A burst of sound up the high street, a laughing group exiting a pub, stilled them until the voices faded in the opposite direction.

But that unexpected spike of adrenaline was damn well good as a hand around a cock or a finger up the arse, so they rutted urgently now, wanting, wanting, wanting the other to come because this was about Sherlock for John, this was about John for Sherlock.

In the end it was about the sound of something scurrying at the base of the altar, pushing John right over the edge, it was the scuff of shoes a double dozen feet distant tipping Sherlock. It was a warm, wet smear across each other's bellies, a messy baptism.

At their B&B later, after a bath, one whiskey, then another, after a bit more sorrow, a bit more soothing, they went to bed, Sherlock's head on John's chest.

A literal man might say that the sound of the heart in that chest was like a slow, muted drum.

A lyrical man, a poetic one, Sherlock Holmes? He would say it sounded like a hymn.

 _—_  
_CardinalOrange inspired me to do the religion prompt, as did the penultimate[entry here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/441850/chapters/1453617). The tiny Irish town in the story is roughly based on [Killaloe](http://www.discoverkillaloe.ie/), in County Clare, Ireland, about fifteen miles from Limerick._


End file.
